Caroline was like no American I had ever met, before or since. She was
travelling home to Philadelphia after a year in Paris with her brother, two
years her senior, Robert. She was twenty-two years old, and the daughter of
one of Pennsylvania's oldest and wealthiest families, originally from the
depths of the "Old South", now the owners of a vast network of locomotive
manufacturing factories.
She was also marvellously depraved. To me, brought up in a world where the furthest into France I ever ventured was the Loire Valley, Caroline's cosmopolitan way of life seemed a million miles from my own. While I had toured dusty chateaux and resided in stuffy boarding houses, she had been doing her best to empty her father's bank accounts in the haute-couture fashion houses of the Champs Elysees while her brother indulged in all manner of debauchery under the pretence of obtaining some authentic Parisian artwork for his parents famous collection.
If he was handsome, and he certainly was, she was beautiful. Aunt Edith and I were escorted to the squat, square, central table by a uniformed steward, who held out chairs for us as Robert and Caroline rose, and introductions were made. He wore a smart dinner suit, she an evening dress, in contravention to the usual rule aboard ship – that the first evening's dinner was never formal in dress code, as most passengers would not have found sufficient time to properly unpack and have pressed the clothes from their stateroom cases. As I later learned, Caroline took any excuse to dress well, and had her own maid to unpack for her.
I do not recall precisely what was said at dinner that evening. The usual pleasantries were exchanged initially, of course. Our names, homelands, where we had been, where we were going. For a brief while we dipped into that most English of pursuits – the name game. One party would mention an acquaintance, in the hope of mutual familiarity, and, consequently, mutual social acceptance. As it transpired, the brother of the wife of my banker uncle was, along with his own wife and charming daughter, regular guests at the Philadelphian mansion at which the siblings habitually resided. Similarly, when in Berlin, Caroline had attended a most extravagant party hosted by the cousin of the husband of our dear Mrs. Rosenberg, at which the assistant to the American ambassador to London had also been present – the sister-in-law of that assistant being our neighbour across the square and next door but two, whose niece had been at the same regatta as me last summer. Et cetera, et cetera. And so the dinner passed, with the obligatory comments on the cuisine, the exoticism of French food, as compared to English and American, both now rather cosmopolitan nowadays. A shame, thought Aunt Edith. She for one recalled the hearty Irish food of her childhood, and thought it far superior. Irish stew was a great favourite for private meals at home in Philadelphia, confided Robert. Indeed, agreed Caroline. Perhaps it was something to do with the immigrant population. Her own family, their name of Garden now far removed from its original Irish foundation, was nonetheless connected, by however many years, to Ireland.
Et cetera, et cetera.
That evening, as we undressed to wash our faces, don our nightclothes and retire, my aunt reflected that the Gardens seemed very nice young people. A touch spoiled – did you see the lace on her gown? – but very nice, and such good companions for me for the duration of the voyage. Perhaps, if we really "hit it off", there would be an invitation to Philadelphia at the American end of the ocean, which would be such an opportunity for me . Complying, I turned off the lamp, and thanked heavens that this would be the only and last night I would be expected to share my "bijou" cabin with my relative of advanced years.
The next morning, I did not see Robert or Caroline. I supposed they must breakfast in their staterooms – the children of such an influential industrialist must surely have a suite each, at the very least, or perhaps in one of the restaurants or cafes higher in the ship, where a supplement was charged for the privilege of eating there. You will see that even in first class, there were distinct social divisions.
In any case, I breakfasted alone with my aunt, then helped her pack the single overnight case and toilette box she had brought with her, before checking that the suitcases and trunk that were to accompany her for the rest of her Irish sojourn were properly labelled and stowed safely in the baggage room to be loaded into the tender at Queenstown.
We reached that port at late morning, and disembarked with those few among our class of passengers who were merely travelling cross channel. At the docks, we lunched on mussels, freshly caught, but remarkably pungent, and shopped for lace – much cheaper on land, I was assured, than onboard ship, where the hawkers whose special trading licences permitted them to board from their own boats sold low quality goods to gullible American tourists at extortionate rates. I escorted Aunt Edith to the hotel where she would spend the night, stayed only to see her settled in her room, and to enjoy a brief cup of tea, then left.
I was seen off at the tender. Titanic was too large to dock at Queenstown's harbour, and relied on these small boats to ferry passengers, mail and cargo to and fro. I promised to telegram from New York directly I arrived, back to the post office in Dublin, to let Aunt Edith know I was safe. "But not from the ship, my dear. Companies always charge so very much for telegram messages to be sent. It's really quite shocking."
And that was it. I reboarded the ship, for the very last time, and watched the receding Irish coastline from the deck, and vaguely wondered whether this would be the last time I would ever see British soil again. Then I went back to my cabin, noticed Aunt Edith's reading spectacles underneath the dresser, and dined. Caroline and Robert were there again, and it transpired to be a rather entertaining evening.
She was also marvellously depraved. To me, brought up in a world where the furthest into France I ever ventured was the Loire Valley, Caroline's cosmopolitan way of life seemed a million miles from my own. While I had toured dusty chateaux and resided in stuffy boarding houses, she had been doing her best to empty her father's bank accounts in the haute-couture fashion houses of the Champs Elysees while her brother indulged in all manner of debauchery under the pretence of obtaining some authentic Parisian artwork for his parents famous collection.
If he was handsome, and he certainly was, she was beautiful. Aunt Edith and I were escorted to the squat, square, central table by a uniformed steward, who held out chairs for us as Robert and Caroline rose, and introductions were made. He wore a smart dinner suit, she an evening dress, in contravention to the usual rule aboard ship – that the first evening's dinner was never formal in dress code, as most passengers would not have found sufficient time to properly unpack and have pressed the clothes from their stateroom cases. As I later learned, Caroline took any excuse to dress well, and had her own maid to unpack for her.
I do not recall precisely what was said at dinner that evening. The usual pleasantries were exchanged initially, of course. Our names, homelands, where we had been, where we were going. For a brief while we dipped into that most English of pursuits – the name game. One party would mention an acquaintance, in the hope of mutual familiarity, and, consequently, mutual social acceptance. As it transpired, the brother of the wife of my banker uncle was, along with his own wife and charming daughter, regular guests at the Philadelphian mansion at which the siblings habitually resided. Similarly, when in Berlin, Caroline had attended a most extravagant party hosted by the cousin of the husband of our dear Mrs. Rosenberg, at which the assistant to the American ambassador to London had also been present – the sister-in-law of that assistant being our neighbour across the square and next door but two, whose niece had been at the same regatta as me last summer. Et cetera, et cetera. And so the dinner passed, with the obligatory comments on the cuisine, the exoticism of French food, as compared to English and American, both now rather cosmopolitan nowadays. A shame, thought Aunt Edith. She for one recalled the hearty Irish food of her childhood, and thought it far superior. Irish stew was a great favourite for private meals at home in Philadelphia, confided Robert. Indeed, agreed Caroline. Perhaps it was something to do with the immigrant population. Her own family, their name of Garden now far removed from its original Irish foundation, was nonetheless connected, by however many years, to Ireland.
Et cetera, et cetera.
That evening, as we undressed to wash our faces, don our nightclothes and retire, my aunt reflected that the Gardens seemed very nice young people. A touch spoiled – did you see the lace on her gown? – but very nice, and such good companions for me for the duration of the voyage. Perhaps, if we really "hit it off", there would be an invitation to Philadelphia at the American end of the ocean, which would be such an opportunity for me . Complying, I turned off the lamp, and thanked heavens that this would be the only and last night I would be expected to share my "bijou" cabin with my relative of advanced years.
The next morning, I did not see Robert or Caroline. I supposed they must breakfast in their staterooms – the children of such an influential industrialist must surely have a suite each, at the very least, or perhaps in one of the restaurants or cafes higher in the ship, where a supplement was charged for the privilege of eating there. You will see that even in first class, there were distinct social divisions.
In any case, I breakfasted alone with my aunt, then helped her pack the single overnight case and toilette box she had brought with her, before checking that the suitcases and trunk that were to accompany her for the rest of her Irish sojourn were properly labelled and stowed safely in the baggage room to be loaded into the tender at Queenstown.
We reached that port at late morning, and disembarked with those few among our class of passengers who were merely travelling cross channel. At the docks, we lunched on mussels, freshly caught, but remarkably pungent, and shopped for lace – much cheaper on land, I was assured, than onboard ship, where the hawkers whose special trading licences permitted them to board from their own boats sold low quality goods to gullible American tourists at extortionate rates. I escorted Aunt Edith to the hotel where she would spend the night, stayed only to see her settled in her room, and to enjoy a brief cup of tea, then left.
I was seen off at the tender. Titanic was too large to dock at Queenstown's harbour, and relied on these small boats to ferry passengers, mail and cargo to and fro. I promised to telegram from New York directly I arrived, back to the post office in Dublin, to let Aunt Edith know I was safe. "But not from the ship, my dear. Companies always charge so very much for telegram messages to be sent. It's really quite shocking."
And that was it. I reboarded the ship, for the very last time, and watched the receding Irish coastline from the deck, and vaguely wondered whether this would be the last time I would ever see British soil again. Then I went back to my cabin, noticed Aunt Edith's reading spectacles underneath the dresser, and dined. Caroline and Robert were there again, and it transpired to be a rather entertaining evening.